


Bitter Boy

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, F/M, Love, So very AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:52:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly is Sherlock's guardian angel. No, *really* his Guardian Angel. Interdimensional love can be complicated, especially considering James Moriarty's return from the dead. If you've been reading, note change in rating - it's getting more explicit and darker as we go along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eyes Wide Open

Molly Hooper wasn't quite human. Actually, it was more accurate to say that she was more than fully human. She was also Mishael. The theologians at Chalcedon got the way it worked down pretty well, although in another context. Not to blaspheme or anything, but the two-natures-one-person thing was accurate in the case of her Kind (Mode of Being). Fully angel, fully human. 

Both Molly and Mishael were in love with Sherlock Holmes. It was like having a crush on a movie star, except she got to fetch him coffee and sometimes got to feel the long, supple fingers brush against hers as he took the cup. She provided bodies or body parts and got to hear the velvet voice say a distracted “thank you” on occasion. 

Of course he didn’t realize Mishael’s true utility. Or identity. In this dimension, she was his friendly morgue attendant. Lately, she thought, she was becoming more and more his actual friend. In the intersection between this dimension and the All, she was his guardian angel (for lack of a better term). It would do as a fairly descriptive, if limited, phrase for the role She played in his life. 

Mishael had been Many, and the All contained all that she had been from her creation in the bright reaches of heaven. Of course even saying “she” was… misleading. A convenience. Her intersection with him in the bit of space/time they shared was Molly. It was difficult to explain to the Short-Lived, so she rarely tried. Of course, the simply-human were Eternal as well. They simply had gotten a much later start and had only one brief Embodiment, and that in a different Mode.... It was difficult to explain. 

Speaking of difficulty, playing any role in Sherlock's life was difficult, not only for Molly/Mishael, but apparently for John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, his brother. Yet they loved him. Mishael went into it with her eyes open. Wide, wide open. She had some seniority, and her success with dear Winston earned her choice of clients. The Three called her in to the Presence… Presences… really, all these numbers and genders were so misleading… into the Presences. Eloia, the Supreme Mother, pointed to the Mirror of All. “Look within, Beloved Child. There are many who need our care.” 

Bath Kol, the Daughter, the Divine Voice, said, “Take care, sister. We are not above love and sorrow. The last one cost you many tears.” She put a hand to Mishael’s…well, “cheek” was misleading. “Perhaps an easier one this time,” the Voice whispered. 

She stepped closer to the Mirror. Souls, bodies, wills, minds shadowed in and around. She opened her sight to them, let them enter into her regard. Oh. Oh, yes. She smiled. She liked challenges. She did have a soft spot for the complex and the…scenic. “That one.” She pointed into the mass of images floating in the Mother’s mirror. 

“Tsk, child. Always drawn to the drama queens,” said Mother. “That one’s not important. Anyone would do for him. He’s done without a Guardian so far. A waste of your considerable talents.” 

“He hasn’t done _well._ He needs me. Besides, he’s interesting." 

“He’s pretty,” Eloia laughed, but not unkindly. “He looks like that other one of yours. The poet. Byron, was that the name? You got distracted there, Mishael. But you did improve his poetry.” 

Shekinah had not spoken. She was Great but of few words. “Perhaps the brother instead? He has significance for things to come. The Battle to Come. You might be a good deal of help to him.” 

Mishael sighed. She would do her duty. Of course she would. “If I must….” 

“Eat your vegetables?” Shekinah laughed. She had always had a fondness for Mishael. Such a loving Guardian, and she worked so hard. She embraced her. Mishael almost gasped from the waves of life and joy that emanated from Wisdom. Her hugs were highly prized, even among the Most High. “I’ll take Ginger myself. You can have Raven.” Mishael smiled, thanked her, and turned back to the Mirror. She gave her new client the once over. Good taste in coats. 

“Be careful, sister,” whispered Bath Kol, “This one is dangerous. You could lose yourself. You could lose the All.” 

“He needs me,” Mishael said, not turning away from the Mirror. 

Bath Kol sighed and shook her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TItle is from Kate Rusby's song "Bitter Boy"
> 
>  _There was a boy, a bitter boy,_  
>  _Whose golden heart I saw gleaming._  
>  _I thought I'd win the heart within,_  
>  _But now I know that I was dreaming._  
>  ~~ Kate Rusby, "Bitter Boy"


	2. A Drink with the Ladies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly receives Visitors and some Advice. She's going to need it.

Molly dragged herself up the stairs, dug around in her purse, and took out her keys. Her hands were shaking and the keys clinked together softly. What had she been thinking? She managed to get the key in the lock. She shouldered the door open. She just wanted to strip off this ridiculous dress, have a large glass of pinot noir, and…. 

“What were you thinking, Child?” She started and dropped the keys. Damn. 

There the three of them sat, having tea at her kitchen table. She recognized Shekinah in her Embodiment as Anthea, Mycroft’s Guardian and personal assistant. They hadn’t crossed paths in this corner of space/time, but she’d recognize Wisdom anywhere. Shekinah was fully embodied. The other two were just visiting, apparently, and had assumed temporary appearances. Eloia was a picture-perfect Maggie Smith in her role as the Dowager Countess, except for the writhing snakes for hair. Mishael sighed and put down her purse and the empty shopping bag that had contained the presents for the party at 221b. She did the girl-friend mirror thing for Mother, making vague writhing motions around her head. 

“Oh.” Eloia smoothed the snakes, who obediently formed themselves into Lady Violet’s elegant grey updo. “But, child, really. Was that necessary?” 

“It isn’t Forbidden. Remember da Vinci?” 

Mother/Violet had the good grace to blush. She had had quite a career as a Guardian in her own day, although she was now retired from active work. She absently pushed a stray snake back into her coiffure. 

“Yes, Mother. We know the reason the Mona Lisa is smiling,” said Bath Kol, who took a demure sip of tea to hide her own smile. Mother’s disapproval was amusing. Pot. Kettle. Molly recognized Kol’s Appearance as Lady Chatterly, although the face was a bit slapdash. Good detail on the dress. The ladies enjoyed watching the occasional BBC costume drama in the Mirror when they were not otherwise engaged. It was their Mirror, after all. 

“I’m tired,” said Molly, absently wiping off her lipstick with the back of a hand that was still trembling slightly. 

Anthea got up, came over, and hugged her. Even fully Embodied, some of Shekinah’s Life communicated itself to her, and Molly stopped trembling. “We know. But we need to talk. Go take off that...," she hesitated to say anything more specific. Her dress sense was unerring, and she did not approve of sparkles unless they came from high-quality gemstones. Tawdry. "... dress and get in the bath. I’ll open the wine.” 

“The good pinot,” Molly said. Anthea nodded. Mishael went into the bedroom to strip off the long, black dress. She left it on the floor, and kicked it for good measure. 

~~~~~  


“Here.” Anthea handed her the glass of wine. Molly took a long swallow, sank down lower into the hot water, and sighed. Mother sat regally on the toilet lid. The steam had made some of the snake-tendrils come to life at the neck of her updo. Anthea sat on the edge of the tub, the fingers of her right hand absently trailing in the water. Bath Kol leaned against the wall and sipped the pinot. She enjoyed wine, even when less than fully embodied. Being merely an Appearance did interfere with both the subtleties of smell and certain aspects of both bitter and sweet. Perhaps it was time to take on a new client herself. 

Having three fully clothed Women (shorthand) in her bathroom while she was naked didn’t bother Mishael. In the All everyone had seen it all anyway. But…. 

“I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you all here?” 

“Things are becoming somewhat complicated. Mother and I thought you and Anthea could use some Advice.” Bath Kol took another sip of the pinot. Nice, but she knew she was missing some of the undertones. Yes, a new client. She had seen a promising one in the Mirror just the other … Day, for lack of a better term… and no-one had claimed her. 

Advice. Molly sank further down into the water. That meant things were probably going to get difficult. Once one took on an assignment and became fully Embodied, one accepted a severe limitation of Powers. You were limited to this dot of space/time, for instance, and you were limited to the past and present. You knew your full Identity, of course, and you had the memories of your Many. You couldn't enter the All, though, and the Mirror was closed to you. Very rarely, however, the timestream paused, and you found yourself actually experiencing the Intersection between the All and this specific space/time, able to act directly within it. It wasn't a choice so much as a gift, seldom given. The Intersections were... Well, they were how everything worked, really. Descartes had been wrong, and none of the philosophers or physicists had figured it out to this day. The Intersections were the meeting places of matter and spirit. The Intersections were the touch of the uncreated on the created, the gap between the actual and the possible, the fluidity between now and not yet. The Intersections were where all the important things happened: creation, grace, embodiment, free will. Love and death. 

You could also do physical rearrangements, but even that was limited. The Once-Embodied called those sorts of rearrangements magic, but they weren’t really. Rearrangements were just the application of memory, knowledge, Modes, good will, and Power. There were Limits and Rules, of course. The Ein Sof had laid them down in the beginning(s). No interfering with the free will of sentient beings. That was a biggie. You could nudge them, but no more than anyone in ordinary human Mode could. And sometimes those still in the All could give you Advice, bulletins from the Void, as it were. Void, Dao, Womb, Heaven. There were many names for it. 

"Child, are you listening?“ Mother's voice was tart. 

Oh. Molly took a gulp of wine and nodded. 

"It’s a Danger Night,” said Anthea. 

“Sherlock isn’t using,” Molly said indignantly, sitting up in the bath. Some water splashed on the skirt of Anthea's impeccable dark suit. She frowned slightly. Mother reached for the nearby rack and silently handed her a hand-towel. Anthea dabbed carefully at the skirt. Marc Jacob. Molly was still talking. “... he’s really trying. I know he seemed upset….” 

“It’s not just _that_ kind of Danger Night.” Mother sipped the tea she had brought into the bathroom. She avoided alcohol since the incident with the Junmai-sake in Kyoto. She tucked the snakes back up from her neck. They blended in with only a few hisses. 

“The game is…. Oh, what’s that he’s always saying?” Kol’s face had come more into focus. Her eyes sparkled. “On!” 

“You’ve been watching him? I thought you all thought he wasn’t important.” 

“Perhaps more than we thought, and he _is_ amusing,” said Mother. She also had a soft spot for the handsome, difficult ones that she was loathe to admit. 

“And scenic,” said Kol, echoing Eloia's unspoken thought. “We know you love him, Mishael. You’re Involved.” A look of pity flitted across the Voice’s borrowed face. There was no hiding from the All, and especially not from these three. 

“Be that as it may," said Mother/Maggie, “these two are going to have to leave soon.” She stood up, set her empty cup on the edge of the sink, and gave the Advice. Bath Kol drained her wine glass and handed it to Anthea. Kol and Mother promptly dis-Appeared. 

“Well, you’d better get dressed,” said Anthea, “and I’d better get back to HQ. They’re both going to need us soon.” 

~~~~~  


Anthea’s phone buzzed just as she got into the car. 

“Yes, boss.” 

“I need you to find a body.” 

“On my way.” 

~~~~~  


“…so it might be a bit difficult,” she said. Her heart ached for him. His fact was as white as the sheet she was pulling back to reveal the face. What was left of the face. 

“That’s her, isn’t it?” 

“Show me the rest of her.” He glanced at the beautiful, white body and turned away. “That’s her.” He was already walking out of the room. She wished she could comfort him. The woman had obviously been beautiful. Even with the damage, Mishael could tell that she had been much more beautiful than her own Embodiment. He must have cared for this woman in some way. Mishael was Many. She had known jealousy before. It wasn’t useful for the Work. Then again, neither was Love beyond a certain point. 

“How did Sherlock recognize her from… not her face?” She couldn’t help wanting to gather what information she could. His brother smiled coldly at her, and she shivered. She was glad she hadn’t chosen that one.


	3. A Friendly Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly receives a visitor in the morgue. Jim's back.

“You were dead.” Molly wondered if he could hear her heart pounding. He looked as pale as the corpse on the slab in front of her under the morgue’s florescent lights, impeccably dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, tasteful tie. How had he gotten in without her hearing him? 

“Good golly, Miss Molly, is that all the welcome back Jim gets? And we were an item.” He smiled. 

She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. She had seen his image on the tv screen of course. Everyone watching telly in Britain at the time had seen it. But she, of all people, knew he was dead. She had examined the body. Severe head trauma from a gunshot wound. Dead as the proverbial doornail. Well, it might be more accurate to say that Moriarty was dead. Ra’ashiel was Many. That had been the Advice from Mother, that Christmas. That Christmas seemed a lifetime ago, so much had happened since then. Moriarty wasn’t just Moriarty, as she wasn’t just Molly. Moriarty wasn’t just evil. He was Evil. One of the Fallen. That had complicated things. 

“Don’t remind me, you evil scum,” she said. 

“Oooh, feisty! Be careful. I could kill you now. Or Unmake you.” 

She ignored the threat. “You can’t be back in this body. Resurrection is Forbidden.” 

Jim rolled his eyes. “Fallen, remember. I crossed that line a long time ago. Besides, He’s done it. Twice at least. I’m fond of this body. Let’s just say we, Jim and me, had some unfinished business.” 

“You’re not Him. Different Mode. But that’s part of your problem, isn’t it? You couldn’t stand that He was higher than you, more than you, more loved than you.” She felt reckless with loathing. Ra’ashiel had been one of the Highest. Mother told Molly the story when she had given the Advice, since once you were Embodied you no longer had access to that knowledge. He hadn’t been content with his place in the great order, hadn’t been content with his share of love and obedience. He always wanted more. His pride, his jealousies, his desires had cast him out. His fall hadn’t changed the fact that he was still Higher than she and much more powerful. 

Moriarty’s mouth tightened, eyes glittering with rage. He came around the morgue table, invaded her personal space, and ran a finger down her cheek. She shivered. “Pity I didn’t know you were a Guardian. His Guardian. I would have Unmade you long before this. A little detail I discovered in that useful void between Death and Reanimation. Let’s call it Reanimation instead of Resurrection. You were right about one thing. Jim died. There wasn’t much left of Jim anyway. By the end it was mostly Me. The reanimation was a bit…. messy. You and Sherlock inconvenienced me. Now I’m no longer limited by Jim, just using the transport.” He gestured down the length of his well-tailored frame. 

Molly couldn’t stop herself from taking a step back. “Why are you here? What do you want?” 

“Just a friendly warning. I know what you are now. You know what I am. I know you can’t tell him about either of our little secrets. Against the Rules, isn’t it? So inconvenient, aren’t they. Rules.” He drew out the word “rules” and grinned like the Chesire cat. She longed to slap the grin off his face. She kept herself still. 

“Don’t interfere with me again, Mishael. Unmaking you would take energy I’d prefer to use for other things. You can be one of his Merry Band, his little lab tech. As long as you don’t interfere with me in a serious way, I find you all amusing. You can live for now. But I’ll be watching.” 

He stepped up closer, body to body. He very deliberately put one hand behind her neck, drew her face to his and kissed her. She struggled, but his grip was like iron. His lips were dry and hot on hers. His tongue snaked into her mouth. His Power washed through her, and she felt fear and desire and hatred and pity, all in almost equal measures. Even fallen, she felt the remnants of the glory that had been Ra’ashiel. 

“Hmm,” he said when he pulled back. “Sweet. Sherlock’s missing out here. Too bad he’s in love with John Watson.” 

She did slap him then. He laughed. “Poor Mishael. Unrequited love’s a bitch. You think it’s better to serve and pine than to make them suffer?” He shrugged and smiled a wicked little smile. “Not the conclusion I came to, but to each his or her own.” He turned and left, still smiling. 

Molly ran to the morgue’s bathroom just in time and threw up everything she had eaten that day.


	4. Let's Have Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock finally have dinner.

"Molly?” 

Great. Just great. She looked in the bathroom mirror. Having just heaved up her guts moments ago, she was not looking her best. Molly passed her hand over the sensor to the hand-towel machine twice, wet the papers with cold water, and pressed them to her face. 

“Molly? Are you here? The lights are on. Molly?” She looked at her reflection again. Pale as death, nose red, hair bedraggled. She looked like hell. Appropriate, since she had just had a bit of it in her morgue. 

“I’ll be out in a minute, Sherlock,” she called. She hadn’t seen him in weeks. 

Molly slowly opened the door. Coat, dark curls, beautiful face. The usual. She wanted to take that pale, sad face in her hands and kiss it. She wanted to put her arms inside the coat, hold him to her, rest her head on his chest, and tell him everything was going to be all right. Although, to be honest, it probably wasn’t going to be. “It’s late…,” she said instead. 

“Molly, he’s back.” 

She nodded. “I saw.” She gestured to the television on the far wall. Sometimes things were slow in the morgue. No-one objected to the occasional news program or cricket match. 

They both stood still, several feet away from each other. “I wanted to be sure you knew. To warn you. Molly, he was dead. It can’t be him.” 

She heard the slight question, the slightest break in the final word. What could she tell him? At least she could tell him what Molly knew. 

“He was dead,” she said. She took a deep breath. “And he was here, Sherlock. He was just here.” 

Suddenly he closed the space between them. His hands were on her arms. “What?” he hissed. “Are you alright?” His eyes searched hers, taking in her pale face and hair coming loose from its hairband. His eyes flicked to the bathroom door. “Molly, did he hurt you?” One hand came up to touch her cheek. “Molly?” 

“I’m ok,” she said. His mouth opened. Shut again. He looked away. “My God,” he said. He turned, poised, she saw, to run after Moriarty. Her hand reached out, grabbed his arm. 

“Wait. He’ll be gone by now.” He looked back at her. Stilled. “Why did he come here?” he asked. 

“He said it was to give me a warning. Not to interfere with…. Whatever it is he’s planning.” Sherlock cocked his head and looked at her closely. She looked down. 

“What is it you’re not telling me, Molly?” 

“Nothing that you don’t know already.” That was a lie. “He’s evil. He wants to hurt you and anyone you care about.” That was, as far as it went, the truth. She couldn’t tell him what Moriarty really was. She would just have to do her best to protect him, to help him. 

“You’ll have to talk to Mycroft, you know,” Sherlock said. “I’ve just come from…. talking to Mycroft. Both of you were sure he was dead. Now here he is. Any clue as to how that might have happened?” His voice had taken on an ironic tone. Her right hand came up to touch the place where his hand had briefly touched her cheek. Tears came to her eyes. Ra’ashiel was powerful, and she would never be able to explain it to either him or Mycroft. Might not… probably would not… be able to protect Sherlock. She sighed, her shoulders slumped, and she leaned on the table holding Mr. Morgenstern’s corpse for support. 

“Molly?” His voice had gone soft, concerned. Blast. A tear spilled out of the corner of her right eye, snaked itself down her cheek. 

“I’m just tired,” she said, scrubbing the wetness away with the back of her hand. “Can Mycroft wait until tomorrow?” She kept her eyes down. 

“Yes. I’ll text him. Molly….,” he hesitated. She looked up. He looked so tired and sad. 

“… would you like to…..” He hesitated again. 

What now? “Solve crimes?” she asked “Catch the villain?” She laughed. It was shaky, but it was a laugh. 

“Have dinner?” 

“What?” 

He narrowed the brilliant blue-green eyes at her as if she had asked a totally idiotic question. “Dinner? It’s eight o’clock. Dinner is when people who like each other go out and…. eat? Drink wine? Talk about their days? I’ve had a hell of a day, by the way. So have you. So…. dinner?” 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said, “look at me.” She gestured to her soiled lab coat, her messy hair, her general…. chaos. “I’m not fit to be seen in public.” 

“Hmm,” he said. He couldn’t deny that they both were somewhat the worse for wear. It had been a very long day. “Baker Street,” he said suddenly. “I’ll call Mrs. Hudson, see if she has something she’d be willing to share.” 

She hesitated. Uncharted waters. 

“Please, Molly. You don’t need to be alone right now. Neither do I. Come have dinner with me. We need a plan of attack for Moriarty.” 

Had she ever heard him say please? She didn’t think so. 

“Thank you, Sherlock. That would be…. nice.” 

~~~~~  


“Molly, love, did you see the telly? Sherlock, you said he was dead.” Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat and was fluttering around both of them as soon as Sherlock opened the outer door. 

“So we thought,” Sherlock said. 

“And I thought you were already away doing something for your brother. For months and months, you said. I cleaned out your fridge this morning. There were _ears_ in the freezer, Sherlock. You promised.” 

Suddenly she came close and hugged him. “You poor boy. You look worn to a thread. That brother of yours! Please tell me you’re not really going away.” 

His face softened. His arms went around her, and he dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “I don't have to go after all. But we’ve all had a shock, and Molly could use some tea if it’s not too much trouble.” 

Mrs. Hudson turned her head toward Molly. “That awful man back from the dead! But don’t you worry. Sherlock will sort it.” She stepped out of Sherlock’s arms. “You two go up. I’ll bring the tea. And I’ll bring you up some supper.” 

“That’s too much trouble,” said Molly, “but tea would be wonderful.” 

“Well, if it’s up to him, you won’t get anything to eat tonight unless I bring it. I made lasagna, and there’s a whole pan of it. You can have some of that and a salad. How would that be?” 

“You’re a wonder,” said Sherlock. “I’ll get Molly settled, then I’ll pop down to help carry.” Mrs. Hudson smiled and patted his arm. “You’re learning, dear, aren’t you,” she said, cryptically. 

~~~~~  


The lasagna was wonderful, hot and filling. Since the dining room table was chock-a-block with burners and tubes and a microscope, they ate off trays on the sofa. Sherlock even unearthed a bottle of Nero d’Avola from the pantry, probably left over from John’s dating days. She recounted a carefully edited account of Moriarty’s visit to the morgue. Sherlock, in turn, told her a carefully edited account of Magnussen’s death. Murder. 

“I didn't see an alternative, Molly. John and Mary were in danger as long as he was alive. But it was murder.” He took a long drink of the wine and didn’t meet her eyes. “I won't blame you if you don't want to have anything more to do with me. It might be better that way, anyway. I don’t think Moriarty will come after you if he sees that we’re….” He stopped. 

“That we’re what?” she asked. 

“No longer connected.” 

“You were going to leave without telling me, weren’t you?” 

“Mycroft thought the fewer people who knew, the better. I said goodbye to John, today. That was…,” 

He stopped. She heard the unspoken, “… as much as I could bear.” 

“You didn’t expect to come back.” It was a statement, not a question. He shrugged. He kept his eyes fixed on his wine glass. She thought her heart would break. He looked older than he had at the wedding. Older even than that day in the lab when he had been using. He had committed murder for John Watson, and now John was back in the suburbs with his wife. He had been saved from exile or death only by the return of his worst enemy. She had confronted said worst enemy who was actually not only his enemy but a fallen angel to boot. They both had had bad days. She took a gulp of wine. 

“Mycroft may have made a mistake in calling me back,” he was saying. “If Moriarty is fixated on me, which he seems to be, I’m putting you all in danger even by being here. I’m putting you in danger now. Just because I didn’t want to be alone. I’m sorry, Molly. Sorry that I involved you with the Moriarty business in the first place. I’m sorry that I needed you. I’m sorry that I... still need you.” His voice went down to a whisper on that last sentence. 

She deliberately put her tray on the floor and set the wineglass carefully on it. She leaned over, took his tray from his lap, set it on the floor. She took the wineglass out of his unresisting hand and put it on the tray. 

She sat beside him, took his right hand in both of hers, lifted it to her lips, and kissed it softly. He sighed. She put her hand on his face and turned it toward hers. He closed his eyes. She leaned forward and let her lips brush softly against his. 

“Oh, Molly,” he said. His eyes opened and looked steadily into hers. “You know that I love…,” 

“John. Of course I do.” 

“I’ve loved him from the first moment I saw him, I think.” His hand ran lightly into her hair, the long fingers feeling exactly as she had imagined they might. “It’s not fair, is it?” 

“Of course not. Let me love you, Sherlock.” She put both hands up to the thin face. “It doesn’t have to be fair. It doesn’t have to be logical. It doesn’t have to balance. Just let us be whatever it is that we are to each other.” 

“Are you sure, Molly?” She felt the muscles in his hands and arms tense, although the hands in her hair were still gentle. 

“I’m sure.” She smiled reassuringly into the beautiful eyes. “Don’t worry,” she said, “It’s just me. Molly.” Not strictly true, thought Mishael. But they were both sure.


	5. A Visit from Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft drops by 221b.

Sherlock woke to something sharp poking into his left hip joint. He looked down. It was the shiny metal tip of a tightly-furled black umbrella. 

“You were both supposed to be at my office at 9:00. Really, Sherlock, you do love to complicate things, don’t you? Good morning, Miss Hooper. I think you’ll find a text from me on your phone.” Mycroft sounded more amused than angry. 

Sherlock felt something burrowing between his right arm and the side of his rib-cage. Molly. Thus Mycroft’s amused tone. He was about to tell his brother to go to hell in no uncertain terms, but he felt Molly’s tiny sigh against his ribs. He settled for an eloquent movement of his chin toward the door that said, “Please be a gentleman, brother mine, and get the hell out.” 

Mycroft smiled. “I’ll make tea, shall I?” He removed the ferrule, turned, and closed the door to the bedroom on his way out. Sherlock rubbed his hip. Obviously one of Mycroft’s semi-weaponized specials from James Smith and Sons. He was going to have a bruise. 

Sherlock looked down at Molly’s tousled hair. His hand came up to stroke it, and his other arm tightened around her. How did he feel about last night? That might take a lot of analysis. Strands of astonishment, regret, guilt, even fear wafted through his mind. Weaving through those were tenderness and protectiveness. The frame holding all the threads was a strange, deep calm such as he rarely felt. The closest thing he remembered to it was playing the Bach Sarabande in D minor for violin in the middle of the night when everything else was quiet. Interesting. Yes, all those things were going to require analysis, but Mycroft was still in the flat, and he was making tea. They weren’t going to be able to avoid him or wait him out. Bugger Mycroft. 

“Molly?” No answer. “Molly?” She burrowed deeper. 

“He’s not going away. I’m not going away, either. You’re going to have to come up for air sometime.” He stroked her soft hair again, shifting up onto one elbow to look down at her. 

He was relieved to hear a muffled laugh. “It’s ok, you know. It’s just you, me, and the British Government. Sorry about that last one, by the way. I didn’t expect to sleep this long.” That was also interesting. 

She slowly turned over so that he could see her face. It was red with embarrassment. Her eyes were clouded with…. What? “Yes, I know we have to talk,” Sherlock said. He suddenly, fiercely, didn’t want her eyes to be clouded. Didn’t want her to think… whatever it was she seemed to be thinking. 

He leaned down and brushed her lips very softly with his own. “I’m sorry about my brother, but I’m not sorry about last night.” Even as he said it, he realized it was the truth. “Are you ok?” 

Her blush deepened, but the clouds abated. “Definitely ok.” She smiled. 

“All right then. Let’s face Mycroft and his brolly and his tea.” He leaned over the edge of the bed and started fishing for their abandoned clothing. 

~~~~~  


“Ah, good,” said Mycroft as they came into the kitchen. “I think the tea is ready.” He pulled out a chair for Molly. “Miss Hooper.” His eyes meet Sherlock’s over Molly’s head as he seated her. His lips twitched. He was definitely enjoying this, thought Sherlock. 

Mycroft had gotten out the good cups. He poured ceremoniously, offered milk and sugar. Sherlock decided to let his brother control the situation to his heart’s content. They all stirred and sipped. 

“You signed the death certificate, Miss Hooper. What do you think happened?” Right to it, then. 

“You can call me Molly, Mycroft. Your people did the DNA tests and had the body cremated. What do _you_ think happened?” 

Standoff, thought Sherlock. “Mycroft, is this flat secure?” 

“Yes, of course it is. I had a team sweep it again before I… woke you.” 

Molly blushed again. Sherlock caught her eye. He couldn’t help a slight wink. She looked down into her teacup, smiling. 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Mycroft. They both looked at him. He seemed to think better of whatever was on the tip of his tongue. 

Sherlock decided that if Mycroft could behave, so could he. “So,” he said in a business-like tone, “dead, confirmed dead, confirmed identity, confirmed cremation. Yes?” 

“Yes,” said Molly and Mycroft simultaneously. 

“So, the only two possibilities,” said Sherlock. “One: he’s dead and someone is impersonating him. Two: he’s not dead and the data was corrupted somewhere in the process. Let’s consider door number one first. Is it possible that the man on the screens and the man who visited Molly in the lab wasn’t him?” 

“As far as the screen images go, of course it is. Easily manipulated,” said Mycroft. 

“It…,” Molly hesitated. “It looked just like him. Sounded just like him.” 

“Sibling? Twin even? Or plastic surgery?” 

“All possible, of course,” said Mycroft. 

“And if the truth is behind door number two?” Sherlock sounded grim. What if Moriarty wasn’t dead? 

Mycroft and Molly looked at each other. Molly went first. “The man who was brought to the morgue was dead. Agents took DNA samples while I stood there. Then they took that body. I can’t say for certain that the body in the morgue was the man on the roof. The body looked like the Jim Moriarty I ...knew." 

“I had agents on that roof in minutes. My agents took that body to the morgue. My agents took the DNA samples. My agents were in charge of the cremation.” 

“So in that scenario, there could have been a switch on the roof before your agents got up there. Or some of your agents could have been corrupted. Threatened or bought. We know Moriarty had money, influence, brains, and a network of operatives.” 

Mycroft’s mouth thinned into a line, and he and Sherlock stared at each other. Mycroft blinked first. “Unlikely,” he said shortly, “but theoretically possible on both counts.” 

“So where does that leave us?” said Sherlock. 

“That leaves us with increased protection and surveillance on all of you, Miss Hooper included, while we try to get to the bottom of this. I’ll send you over all the information we have on Moriarty’s background and family, Sherlock. You can pursue the sibling angle. I’ll start testing all the links in the chain for the body.” 

“He’s evil,” said Molly. “He wants to destroy all of us.” 

Sherlock looked at her carefully. Something passed over her face. Fear. Loathing? She looked steadily back at him, then at Mycroft. “I was with him in the morgue. Whoever he is…. Whatever he is….,” 

She hesitated. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. There was something she wasn’t telling him. “It almost doesn’t matter whether he is Moriarty or not,” she said. “The man that came to threaten me in the morgue is evil. Whatever other agenda he has, don’t forget that. He wants to destroy Sherlock. Not just kill. Destroy.” She was still looking steadily at Mycroft. 

"Understood,” he said. “Good morning, Sherlock. Molly.” Then he was gone. 

~~~~~  


“Molly,” said Sherlock. 

“Hmm,” she said, not meeting his eyes. 

“What is it you’re not telling me?” 

“About what? Moriarty or last night?” 

Ah, they still needed to talk about last night, didn’t they? Did they? Of course they did. Everything was so complicated. 

“Moriarty first.” 

“I’ve told you everything that I can. The thing I can’t tell you….,” she was looking down at her hands. “Please trust me, Sherlock, I don’t think it would make a difference to what’s going to happen. It’s the best I can do anyway.” 

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Molly shook her head. 

Very, very strange. But he did trust her. “Of course I trust you,” he said. “With my life. With…. last night. Molly, was it terrible for you? I didn’t want it to be, but I’m afraid I don’t have much recent experience.” He had had plenty of experience with both men and women during his junkie days, but not with anyone who mattered to him. Last night had mattered. He couldn’t tell her he loved her, because he loved John. She knew that already. Was it actually true that he didn’t love her? Certainly not in the all-consuming way he loved John. He didn’t want her in the same crazed, hopeless way. But he did care for her. He felt the calm seep into him again, just looking at her across the table. He was so new to all this, to caring. He seemed to mix it with an infinite capacity for confusion, for hurting the people he cared about. 

“Molly, I don’t want to hurt you. Did I? Am I?” 

She didn’t answer him directly. She stood up, came over to him. He skewed his chair around and looked up into her face. “Being with you was wonderful, Sherlock. You didn’t hurt me. You aren’t hurting me now.” She touched his cheek with one hand. Her eyes were unclouded and soft. “Can we go back to bed now?” 

He covered the small hand on his face with his own. Her eyes seemed to see everything, to understand everything. “Yes,” he said, “yes.”


	6. Darkness Visible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock's evening begins better than it ends. Note change in rating - things are getting a bit more explicit and darker.

_Yet from those flames no light, but rather darkness visible._ ~~ John Milton  


~~~~~  


He had her shirt off before he closed the bedroom door with his foot. One long-fingered hand pulled her to him as the other unhooked her bra. Her arms went around him, pulling him even closer. 

“Last night was something of a blur,” he said. “You’ll tell me what you want? What you like? If I do something you don’t want…” 

She reached up and pulled his head down. She smiled into his eyes. “Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?” 

“Often,” he said. He ducked his head down to take her mouth with his. His tongue gently swept the inside of her upper lip. He pulled back. “Mycroft says that as a child I rarely…,” he kissed each of her closed eyes. “… shut up.” His lips trailed down her neck and settled in the soft flesh above her collarbone. 

Molly moaned. “Always wanting to know how, why…..” he continued, placing butterfly kisses circling her nipples between the words. “I wanted to know… ah.” He stopped as Molly’s hands went around his ass and pulled him closer, rocking against his growing erection. 

“You wanted to know…?” Molly prompted, still rocking, pulling the white shirt from the waistband of his trousers. She put both hands under the shirt, against the warm flesh of his back, kneading the tight muscles. 

“God,” he said. “… everything. I want to know everything. I need data. For instance….” His thumbs went to her nipples and very gently circled them, then flicked across them. “If I don’t talk, I can’t ask whether that gives you pleasure… does it?” 

She gasped. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, yes. But there are other ways to….to…..” His mouth came down on hers, more and more insistent. She sagged against him, not sure that she could remain upright. 

He pulled back, laughed, and swept her up in his arms. “I see what you mean. There are many ways to obtain data.” 

He dumped her on the bed, stripped off his clothes efficiently, and lay beside her. He looked into her eyes while his hands unzipped her jeans. His fingers stroked the skin just under her belly-button. She closed her eyes and sighed. “Observation and deduction,” he said. 

“Very…,” she said. “Oh.” His hand went lower. “…useful.” 

“Indeed,” he said. 

“Shut up, Sherlock,” she said. 

“Hmm,” he said, and his mouth covered hers. 

~~~~~  


When Sherlock woke, it was dark in the room. How long had they slept? Molly was curled up beside him, one hand on his chest. His hand came up to stroke her back. She sighed, but didn’t stir. Again, he felt that sense of deep calm, deeper this time. He had spent himself inside her twice, and she had met him passion for passion. Not hampered by his own guilt and desperate need this time, he had been able to take his time, to see her, to feel her, to feel himself in her, to meet her. To know and be known. What he now knew of Molly, and of himself with her, rather took his breath away. He realized that he still wanted John, and he no longer felt guilty about that. That had been a constant in his life for years. But he had known since soon after he came back from his years away that he could never have him, not this way. John was in love with someone else. Now he was married and soon to be a father. He would always want John, always need John. In having sex with Molly that first time, he had admitted to himself that he wanted, needed, someone to meet him not just mind to mind and heart to heart, but body to body. 

Why was he awake? Then he remembered. He had heard something, just on the borders of consciousness, or thought he had heard something. 

He had heard a floorboard creak. Bloody hell, if Mycroft was back, he would strangle him. He tried to move without waking Molly. 

Suddenly the bedroom door opened, and the light, suddenly turned on in the other room, blinded him for a moment. He scrambled out of bed, heart pounding. 

“Naughty,” said a familiar voice. He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He stood by the bed, naked. No weapon, he thought. John had taken his gun with him. The swords were in the lounge. 

“Molly,” said Sherlock, raising his voice, “wake up.” He heard her stir behind him, then heard her gasp. He didn’t turn around to look at her. He looked instead at James Moriarty, standing three feet away, impeccably suited, and flanked by two large men holding guns. 

“I’m disappointed." Moriarty drew out the last word. “Molly, sweetheart, I did warn you, but did you listen?” 

“What do you want?” Sherlock hissed, each word distinct, fists clenched. 

“What do I want?" Moriarty laughed softly. The flat, brown eyes shifted to Sherlock for the first time. "I thought that had been rather obvious all along, my dear, but you still don’t quite understand it, do you?” Moriarty’s eyes ran slowly down the length of Sherlock’s body. He smiled. “We’ll play it out, shall we? Explanations are so tedious.” 

“Take her,” he nodded toward Molly. The two men moved toward the bed, Sherlock threw himself toward Moriarty, willing to try to take him apart bare-handed if he could. Moriarty lifted a hand, met the charge with the same languid hand placed on Sherlock's bare chest, and everything went dark. 

~~~~~  


“Sherlock. Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice sounded unusually agitated. “John is on his way. We sent a car for him.” 

Sherlock could hear but he couldn’t seem to open his eyes. 

“Myc…,” he tried to say. His voice was slurred. “Mol..Molly.” 

“Sherlock, can you open your eyes? What happened? What about Molly? Was she still here?” He felt Mycroft's hand, strangely gentle, on his face. Molly. They had taken Molly. He tried to get up. Failed. 

“Don’t try to get up. You’ve been out for at least twenty minutes. That’s how long I’ve been here. Just try to open your eyes.” He did. Mycroft was kneeling beside him, his face white. Other people were milling around the room. Someone, Mycroft he hoped, had covered him with the blanket from the bed. 

“Mycroft, they took Molly. You have to….” 

“Who took her, Sherlock? The surveillance cameras on the outside of the building went off-line 40 minutes ago. I came as quickly as I could.” 

“What the _hell_ good are you, Mycroft? I thought you had put protection on us. On Molly.” He struggled and sat up. Mycroft help him lean back against the bed, his hands still gentle. 

“The two agents I had guarding this building are dead. The agents near Molly’s apartment say she never came home. Moriarty?” 

Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded. Not Mycroft’s fault. It was his fault. “I’m sorry, Mycroft. He took her. I couldn’t stop him.” 

“John’s on his way. I have agents scanning all the surrounding CCTV footage. We’ll pick him up somehow.” 

“Mycroft, he came for Molly, not for me. He said that he had warned her. This is my fault. If he hurts her, if he…,” he couldn’t finish the sentence. “I never should have come back to London. I should have gone to Slovenia after all. I’ve put you all in danger just by being here.” 

He read compassion in his brother’s eyes. That frightened him. He almost wished that Mycroft would try a comforting lie, but Mycroft knew him too well. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” was all he said.


End file.
